The Walking Dead: Morales
by Diamond Days
Summary: As a zombie outbreak occurs, a group of survivors outside of Atlanta decide to head to the CDC to find a cure. But one family choose to leave the group, and make their own way in this new world to reach other family members in Alabama. Juan Morales, his wife Miranda and their two children are on their own now... Story will be updated weekly, every Monday at midnight GMT.


_Author Note: Thank you for choosing to read this story, based on Emmy-award winning universe of _The Walking Dead_. Following on from the first season of the TV series, this short story focuses on the journey of the the Morales family to Birmingham, Alabama._

_This story is canon with all seasons of the TV series but not the comic books or tie-in novels._

_The main characters in this story are not my own and belong to AMC and Frank Darabont._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**1**

**Three Fifty Seven**

* * *

He stared down at the ugly object in his hands, trying to understand it. He ran his fingers over the smooth, brown wooden handle, curved just so it fitted snugly into the shape of a curled up hand. Above it was a small latch, known as the hammer, the purpose of which was to ignite the propellant contained within the ammunition that sat in the cylinder. The cylinder was a bulbous section on the instrument, the widest part, containing six separate chambers for a bullet each. The trigger hung loosely within its housing underneath the cylinder; it looked innocent enough, but, to apply just a couple of ounces of pressure on to it and it delivered death in the form of a 40mm lead bullet. The barrel was a thin and straw-shaped, jutting out as if it didn't quite belong. There were vents adorning both sides of it, no doubt to ensure it didn't overheat when having metal and gunpowder burst through it at high speed. All in all, the object only weighed a couple of pounds.

They'd called it a 'three-fifty-seven', although the numerical designation meant as much to him as any other set of three numbers would have. It was a small gun, barely bigger than his hand-span. The 'cylinder' had six bullets in it (he had checked this meticulously five times since being given the weapon) and he had a cardboard box sitting on the dashboard in front of him which held twenty two more. He didn't know what would happen when the box was empty. He didn't even know if they would _survive_ until the box was empty. Perhaps the box would outlive them. That was a terrifying thought; for, if it did, that would mean that Juan Morales hadn't done everything he could to protect his family from death.

The Morales family had left their previous home three hours ago, a camping ground just outside of Atlanta, Georgia. It had been the safest place they had known since the outbreak, a place where they had lived with other survivors and made friends. But, just like any other home now, a haven was only safe for a limited amount of time before it became dangerous and uninhabitable, and they had to move on to the next one. The camp outside Atlanta had been isolated from the city, next to a quarry, but even that had become overrun eventually. And now, they were on the road once more, heading for their next home.

* * *

They headed west on Interstate 20, a direct route to their final destination of Birmingham, Alabama. It wasn't a random choice. Juan's cousin, Miguel, had settled in the city thirteen years ago, when property prices had been at an all-time low and political views had been more liberal. His family had grown exponentially (a common trait of a Morales) as the years went by, with his wife and he bringing five children into the world. They had moved around Birmingham during this time, eventually settling for a modest-sized property to the south of the city, living amongst people of a similar heritage. More of the family had moved to the area since, with Juan's aunt and uncle buying a place just around the corner from Miguel and his godfather also relocating from the Sonora region. As a result, there had always been an open invitation for them to come to Birmingham, and they were never more happy to accept it than right now.

But, while the trip would usually have taken them a little over two hours on a good day, things were a lot different today. The speedometer in the car never passed twenty (and more often than not was quite a lot lower) as their fifteen-year-old Suzuki Samurai slowly crawled along the highway. The two westbound lanes (and the hard shoulder) were littered with stationary vehicles, like trash on a sidewalk; cars, vans and trucks, frozen in motion, abandoned on a highway which felt more like a cemetery now. Fortunately they were spaced in such a way that the Suzuki could get through if it moved slowly, but it did add to the tension of the journey. Speed was their ally currently; the slower they went, the more likely they were to be attacked.

There was no telling how long they had been sitting here for, or what had happened to the owners of the vehicles. It had been roughly three months since the outbreak had started. It had begun with reports of anti-social behaviour in the larger cities, with rioting and looting taking place, but soon it was clear that something else was spreading along with the violence. People got ill, people got sick and people died. But then they started hearing about people coming back...and attacking other humans. It was a disease of some sort, but nothing that could be stopped. Instead it spread. So much so that Atlanta had become as uninhabitable as anywhere else in the country. Some had blamed large-scale food poisoning, an increased reliance on medication, or even government conspiracy. Juan Morales, being of Aztec origin, believed the goddess Mictecacihuatl had a lot more to do with this than anyone else.

Miranda was behind the wheel currently, her hands stiff on the leather as her eyes scanned the road ahead for a route through the obstructions. She was adopting the standard '10-and-2' position, and her knuckles were beginning to turn pale as the blood moved away from her hands. She gripped as hard as she could, worried that, if she let go, her hands would shake, her arms would go limp and she would be putting her family into danger. Her husband Juan, and their two children, Louis and Eliza, who were currently fast asleep in the rear seats. She was thankful for that, as she continued to do her best to hide the new world from the eyes of her children.

Some of the vehicles still had occupants in them, those who hadn't been lucky enough to flee in time. Miranda could tell which vehicles had them in before she reached them. Out in the open country, the smell of the dead carried a long way, and it was a distinct musk. The odor of rotting flesh reached her nostrils long before the sight of it. And then there was the noise. As she got closer to each metallic coffin, there was a _buzzing_ sound. It came from the vermin, flies and mosquitoes mainly, who hadn't been notified of the end of the world, but were suddenly finding a lot more food lying around. They were attracted to anyone who had deceased, and therefore acted as an insect cowbell for the dead, letting those in the vicinity know that there was a corpse nearby.

As they passed each occupied vehicle, both Miranda and Juan held their breath, praying that the dormant, lifeless beings inside didn't notice the car driving past and awaken. It was unlikely that one would present much of a threat to them, as they were in a car and could easily outpace any of these creatures, but the noise of one chasing them could easily bring more, and a crowd of walkers would overwhelm them in no time. Juan had seen how dangerous they could be in Atlanta, and at the camp. He didn't want to face it again, although he knew it was only a matter of time before they did. He only hoped that they were in Birmingham by then.

"How much further to the state line?" asked Miranda, breaking the silence, and tension, in the car. It was the first time she had spoken since they had departed their previous camp at the quarry a couple of hours before. And, with her and Juan agreeing a route beforehand, they had agreed to keep noise in the car to a minimum, for obvious reasons.

"Twenty miles," replied Juan, looking up from the gun to the road ahead. "Maybe more. We'll make it there by the time the sun goes down."

Juan relaxed in the passenger seat, having agreed to take over the role of driver once they passed the state line into Alabama. He thought about Rick Grimes. Officer Friendly. The sheriff had come to the city of Atlanta looking for his family, and had stumbled upon Morales and his group entirely by accident. As it happened, he had been a godsend, as the dead had swarmed around Morales and the others, trapping them in a department store. Rick Grimes been fearless, showing authority and guts as he led the inexperienced group to safety. And he had been repaid in kind, when he came back to the campsite with Juan and the others and had found his wife and son there. Lori and Carl. They had been good friends to the Morales, with Miranda finding Lori one of the few people she could confide in amongst strangers. And Carl was aged between Louis and Eliza, and the three had become playmates during their brief time together. Perhaps it was natural, given the situation which had led them all to an abandoned quarry outside of Atlanta.

But that had all changed two nights before, with their camp coming under attack from walkers coming out of the city. They had lost many, and the decision had been made to evacuate the area before they were hit again. The rest of the survivors had made the decision to head for the Center of Disease Control and Prevention in north-east Atlanta. It offered hope of a cure, and that was what they all needed. But Juan had decided his family wouldn't be joining them. They needed to be around family. It would help his kids settle, and Miranda would find peace. They didn't need to just survive. They had to _live_ again.

As he relaxed in his seat, he hoped that the others from his former camp had made it to the CDC and survived. The world would need people like Rick Grimes.

* * *

As soon as they reached the following junction, however, any thoughts of reaching the state line by nightfall vanished. Miranda released her foot from the accelerator and let the car slow to a full stop as they stared in horror at the scene in front of them. Far back in his childhood, Juan Morales remembered accompanying his cousins to the local picture-house to watch _The Blues Brothers_, and he remembered squealing in laughter as the police cars piled up upon one another to form a huge pileup. But nothing about the sight in front of him now was remotely funny.

Across four lanes of highway, was a wall of metal. Cars of different shapes, sizes and colours were wedged in to one another, their sleek bodies crumpled like tin foil as they had collided with other vehicles. A truck belonging to a shipping company had flipped onto its side and was now spread across the grass strip between both sides of the road, preventing cars from even going off the road to bypass the obstruction. The whole feature was so perfect it almost looked as if it had been done deliberately There were small gaps along the line of vehicles which could be seen, but nothing anywhere near big enough to allow the Suzuki to pass through.

Juan stared silently at the obstruction, knowing there was no way they would get around it. Next to him, Miranda let out a slightly whimper, like a dog requiring attention, before she went silent as well. Both of them feared the worst. Their route to Birmingham was no longer viable; they would have to go back, and _that_ meant retracing all the road they had spent hours negotiating already.

"I'm hungry."

Juan and Miranda both turned their heads around at the same time to see the brown eyes of their eight-year-old son Louis staring back at them. _He must have woken up when the car stopped_, Juan told himself, remembering that a running car was always the best solution to sending a child to sleep. He didn't even realise it had been almost twelve hours since any of them had had something to eat, when they had still been at the camp.

"Soon, _ninito_," said Juan softly to his son, careful not to make too much noise, before he turned back to look out of the front windscreen.

"We can't go around," said Miranda, an obvious but somehow necessary statement. "Not in the car."

"We're not ditching the car," stated Morales firmly, without a moment's hesitation. "We'll need to back up, find an exit and take another route." He turned his attention to the map that was tucked between the driver and passenger seat. It was worn and well-thumbed, a constantly-used travel companion whenever the family had been on vacation outside of Atlanta. Right now, it was an _essential_ travel companion.

Juan flicked through the pages until he found the right one, and began scanning the length of I-20 to figure out where they were. _There_. He could tell from the position of the junction they had passed about five minutes before. He remembered it distinctly for a life-size plastic brown bear which had been mounted to the right of the westbound carriageway, advertising 2-for-1 desserts at a local waffle house. _About a mile back_, he judged from the map. The smaller road snaked north-west, through some farmland, but then...they could join Route 78 and head for Tallapoosa..._if we're lucky, we could still make the state line before_...

"_Juan_!"

The scream came from his wife's mouth, and he was about to chastise her for raising her voice before he realised what she was looking at. He hadn't seen it before because he had been staring at the cars in front of him, and hadn't even bothered looking behind the car, on the road they had just come down. Their journey on the highway had clearly woken some of the dormant bodies within the vehicles they had passed; and now, about two hundred meters down the road from them, a lone figure slowly stumbled toward them. It was clear, even from a distance, that it was no longer living, and therefore a threat to them.

Without thinking, Juan swung his door open and stepped out of the car, turning to face the oncoming walker. He closed the door behind him, knowing that his family had a degree of safety within the metal confines of the car. He then began walking toward the threat, and away from his loved ones, determined to keep them at bay from this fight.

Before he had a chance to process his actions, he found himself reaching into the front of his waistband and removing the revolver, clutching it tightly in his right hand. Suddenly it all made sense. A few hours before, Rick Grimes had handed him this weapon as a method to keep him and his family alive for as long as possible. Juan had never fired a gun before in his life, but now he knew he would have to, in order to protect his family.

The walker was about six foot in height, and of an average build. He wore a chequered shirt and denim jeans, and could have been mistaken for a live human were it not for the face. The skin was pale, and slightly saggy, ageing the body of the recently-deceased by quite a few years. He had a slight limp, meaning he moved at about half the speed of a normal, living human.

As he stumbled toward Juan, his eyes were firmly fixed on his target, a glazed-over stare which was unwavering. His mouth was agape, the jaw hanging down from the rest of the face, as a guttural, hissing noise emitted from inside. Like the eyes, the noise was relentless, and only grew louder as the walker made its way to where his target was standing.

Juan Morales raised the .357 revolver in one hand and aimed the barrel at the forehead of the approaching walker. His arm was visibly shaking, so much so that the gun was wobbling in his hand and the barrel swinging all over the place. He lifted his left arm and placed his hand underneath his right elbow, gripping tightly to ensure as little movement as possible. The barrel was still moving around, but at least now it remained on the walker rather than the space around it_. Good_ _enough_. He allowed himself a moment to take a breath, as the walker moved a few steps closer to his position. When it got close enough that Juan could smell its breath, he realised he was out of time. He pointed the gun at the middle of the forehead of the walker, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.


End file.
